Amidst the white glare of the stars
you reach out your hands and feel only
     the flames scorching your fingers.
Blind, you remain; yet you are the one to see
     [the plagued skin of the defiant]
Deaf, you remain; yet you are the last to hear
     [the warning screams of the fallen].

From whence the crying comes you consider not
     because whilst the noises and voices conflate
into a disembodied greyscale hum, untranslatable-
a labyrinth of intangible faces to one’s sanity bate-
you stay mute by throwing down all reason
     so that they may skitter away to beleaguer
     the crackēd bones of those already desolate.
Repulsed by the taste of your own venom
its pungent acridity pervading every bud
you spit on the entrails toss’d safe astray
     and rely on the imprints in the dirt for guidance
but the ground before you crumbles away
     and you find yourself lost without ever taking a step.

Seeing still all visages through the smoke of the pyre
wondering why their masks are dripping at the edges-
Weep; glass tears scrape at the film clouding your eyes
     -and fear- then, if you are finally seeing clear
for all you shall discover when the sun doth rise
when the shade departs and the weak-hearted cower
be the pyrrhic ravages o’ crimson ash mix’d with burnt souls-
     all the carnage of Armageddon a simple hand-mirror.